by H. G. Adler
And don’t you worry about that fat dog, the house lady can take care of it. What’s that, his name is Bunny? A dog named Bunny! Here’re some scraps for that hot dog, that should do him, it will only do the mutt good to land in someone else’s hands and not be so overfed. It doesn’t matter that he’s a dachshund; even for a broad-built animal he’s still too fat. The looks of him! All this idiotic love of pampered pets, how typical, how useless, what ridiculous sentimentality. Without that, this nonsense would quickly come to an end, for certainly dogs, cats, and canaries will have to be turned in within a few weeks. The Humane Society will take care of them and make sure the critters do not suffer. They’ll be in good hands, don’t worry, everything will be taken care of.
Alas, everything must be done by hand, even the stones that are still held together await the hands that will rip them apart later. The mortar between the individual bricks will tire of fending off the picks and will begin to crumble into dust. But that’s not yet the case, that will take time, that will be put off until later. There’s also no need for Frau Lischka to enter the living quarters. The cracks in the wall are not dangerous. Frau Lischka discovers in the living quarters the old flowery porcelain that Leopold’s grandmother had received as part of her trousseau. It’s all still in perfect condition, without a piece missing; one could even sell it for a pretty price. Yet one shouldn’t just barge in, but rather take greater care so that no cracks appear. Nonetheless, Frau Lischka carries off the tureen, gathering up the many plates with pious hands, since it would be such a shame if it was all carted off by the authorities.
Meanwhile Leopold is fitted out. Here he stands, stiff in a winter coat that otherwise he would never wear, a broad floppy hat on his head, demanding the umbrella he always has with him, come rain or snow, as he hurries to see his patients. This time, however, he leaves without his medical bag, for he can see that it will be a long journey, perhaps a return home possible after a number of months, though it could last a little longer, maybe a year, but no longer, everything will be over by then. That’s why this time the coat, hat, and umbrella aren’t enough; a small knapsack is also packed. Inside are his slippers, as well as whatever is needed to sleep in and to wash, because Leopold needs to feel comfortable. One bag is important, it’s not heavy, no, it doesn’t press upon his shoulder. There are good things to eat inside: bread with sausage and cheese, apples, and a nice cake.
Leopold, you must leave the house and Ida must go with you. Crippled hands and feet don’t matter, the street is dry and there’s no wind. So get going, there are no more houses for all of you to hide in. Your tired bones are dismissed. Ida, they spit on you and laughed about your rheumatism. Anyone can have it, there’s no shame in that. It’s not so bad that your bones are so twisted up, they said, for where you’re headed there will be good hospitals with many doctors and young nurses. Just go, Ida; Leopold can’t go alone, because he gets confused, but if you’re with him everything will be all right. We’ll follow behind. Go and enjoy taking the streetcar from Stupart, because there’s nothing left in this house that can still belong to you. That makes it easy to say good-bye.—But it was our house.—No, it was never yours, nor anything in it. You took it all, since you paid for it with money that didn’t belong to you; it was bribery that allowed you to enjoy the pleasures of this apartment. Four rooms altogether, a dark foyer, a kitchen, living quarters, a bath and toilet, cut off from the outside world because you hid behind a massive door with a flimsy bolt, as well as a dead bolt and chain to quell your fears, and a covered peephole, behind which a bad conscience lurked, climbing up and down the steps as if there were nothing to feel guilty about when away from your loot.
You spent years here and loved to be seen about town. You left your lair together, feeling safe in Stupart, as if it were home, as if you had the right to it, completely unaware because of your greed, not even noticing or questioning what you did. You shook each hand extended to you and said “Good-bye!” yet you thought nothing of it, and so your days drifted past. You thought that you were being sociable whenever you opened your doors to someone, but that only happened because the doctor was treating someone or it was for your own pleasure. You shouldn’t complain that it’s all gone. Be happy you ever had it at all! No one asked if you ever had the right, which you thought obvious, to hang up a sign on the building and the door of the apartment which read:
DR. LEOPOLD LUSTIG
General Practitioner
You were granted that out of magnanimity and you enjoyed every bit of it. Years passed in which you lived among other people who had gathered in Stupart in order to pass their days here. Here there were neighbors and little stores whose doors rattled when you entered and one had to put up with your look. Still, you liked being greeted. People laughed and asked after your health because they loved the money in your wallet, and there wasn’t an hour during the day in which you were not welcome, no matter what happened.
But now no one lets you in anymore, and there are many doors you are forbidden to open. Only a few doors are not off-limits to you, and even those are only open for a couple of quick hours in the afternoon so that your insatiable stomachs don’t overflow with too much fodder. Others, however, shouldn’t have to do without because of you; they want to eat and drink and certainly have a right to do so since, indeed, it all belongs to them. So a little will have to last you, but you’ll take it in stride, if only you’re able to quell your hunger. You’ve gotten used to everything, and so you’ll get used to the journey as well, for you can put up with anything so long as you are patient with your existence and hope doesn’t dry up. Hope never placed limits on anyone, because only you can shut down your own eager expectations. When that happens, impenetrable night descends from which only the forgotten escapes.
But we have not let it come to that. We rise and wander through the night. We have renounced sleep. It’s better that the walls collapse; shoes have a harder time keeping out dust than they do stones. It’s easy, you only have to put one foot behind the one in front of you, the other foot behind the next. That will help keep you on track, my friend, since where there is no path anything can happen. Illusion shields each of us from our fate. Whoever sweeps that away doesn’t know what he’ll find, yet he sees things as they are. Inside such a space there is light; there one must confront everything.
“Every bit of damage, every attempt at concealment will be punished!”
You aren’t allowed to pack the electric iron. Luckily it’s broken. Many things cannot be brought along; much is worn out, much broken, Paul having destroyed not only the lute. Indeed, the authorities will receive a damaged legacy, as well as all its losses. But there is still much too much here. It’s not junk! They are precious possessions! They all cost money when we first bought them. It wasn’t that easy to earn. There’s almost no coal left in the cellar. Frau Lischka took it all away. Everything forbidden is gone, there’s nothing more to hide. The mattresses from the beds cannot be taken away. It’s written on paper that “Everything must be carefully handled” because it no longer belongs to you. There’s no such thing as your property; your property is someone else’s property. Preserved goods must stay in the pantry. Others can enjoy the goodies. You’ve gorged yourself enough. A label is glued to every glass with Ida’s shaky handwriting, each one announcing in tidy fashion: RASPBERRIES, PEACHES. There are still eight jars of tomatoes. The plum sauce is from last year and looks black, but it’s superb, for no sugar was spared in the making. The sauce is especially tasty on cake.
“Oh dear, the fire in the furnace has gone out! Zerlina, you should have relit it. It would be nice to have it warm in here.”
It’s not necessary at all. Soon it will be completely cold. The apartment is dead, paper seals carrying official stamps guard the sacred silence of the rooms. There sleep, night, dust, and cold exist. There nothing exists. Not a single memory is there. They took Bunny away. The porcelain from Leopold’s grandmother is gone. Now the furnace can remain silent.
The ashes will not be taken out. No one is cold in their winter jackets. It just keeps getting warmer under the heavy layers. Finally all preparations are completed. Heavily laden, Paul and Zerlina stand, though Caroline also loads up what her ancient back can carry.
“I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything, Mother. Don’t be afraid. We’ll be back.”
Frau Lischka knows this as well: “You’ll be back. My husband will open a bottle of schnapps. Bunny will meet you at the station!”
The strangers know nothing about returning. No one knows if it will happen, everyone hopes it will, none believes so, though no one admits to his lack of belief, not even once to himself, for it’s forbidden, and no, nobody lets himself admit such things anyway. Meanwhile, the officials have no souls, they recognize neither joy nor suffering, and whoever is free of feelings only carries out the letter of the law without caring, at an unreachable remove from all others, doomed to their own forms of isolation.
“The suitcases must stay! They will be picked up later. Take only a small bag with you!”
Everything is packed tight, and there’s wisdom in bundling everything together in defiance of what’s ordered, because one’s possessions are themselves an expression of human nature, as only humans can possess something. But possessions are also obsessions, and soon they will be more powerful than those who possess them, since things reveal how they came to be possessed. Once they are acquired, it’s hard to part with them. Only when there’s a surplus of them does one gladly give them away, or at least without duress, because one chooses to do so. Whether gifts or something sacrificed, they remain gifts that are given of one’s own free will, for which the donor never expects anything in return, wanting absolutely nothing to do with a desire for reward or praise. But here all expectations are eradicated, because nothing is exchanged but rather taken. Hence nothing is safe. Yet this flies in the face of what is just. And so we invoke the need for justice.
Oh, what crazy ideas you get, still thinking about justice, as if you were never told that it’s already fit and just that inevitably you are ordered about and told to do things that only to you do not seem right. You’ve never gotten used to the idea of order, that’s why we shatter your pride. We will lead you into the desert and say, There, now look for a place to live.—But here is our home, and one can’t make a home if there is nothing there beforehand to make it with. One always has to have something in order to exist. Only Bunny and other animals have nothing, they are not the same as people. Only he who can stand up and say, It’s really me who’s shouting, only he is someone who has something and must have something.—Why do you always have to have something? That’s greed speaking for you, the addictive need to always want more and seek it. You have yourself at least.
“Frau Lischka, I have nothing more to say to you. Be well!”
You have nothing when you only have yourself, for this seems like nothing the moment you encounter something else that you can have.
“You may no longer …”
Yet there is only so much one can do, which the cripple is the first to properly understand, though prison does not represent the soul’s strongest possible restraint. The spirit is free, that’s what one learns. Does this freedom have no need of space? Is time enough by itself? What’s impeded when restrictions are imposed, freedom or you yourself? Why are you dissatisfied? You want the power to control things, yet you never possessed freedom. You are under restraint because the power to control matters has been stripped from you.
The intruders have weak flashlights, which they hold way out in front of them in order to pierce through the darkness of the stairwell. They intend something awful without letting on what it is. They restrict others yet do not know that they are also checked. The intruders are not crippled, hardly even lame, because their prison is everywhere and enjoys the protection of the power that knows no limits, as it can expand its reach farther with every step taken until the illusory feeling of limitless power leads them down the stairs and into the expanse of the darkened streets. The messengers are not afraid of the streets, even though they are cursed as well, but they have badges made of cardboard that they can point to whenever someone protests against the freedom employed during these hours when they also become crippled as they inflict the curse of expulsion. Now, however, their only wish is to stay healthy and on their feet and not to break their necks by falling down the steps. Nothing else worries these men in the stairwell, but this is only a guess that may not be true, for perhaps worries also press at the messengers that are not so apparent.
One of them is a handsome youth. His long hair often falls across his forehead, making him seem annoyed when, with a flick of his head, he flips back the strands, remedying the situation for no longer than a moment. Now he says: “You have to let your father go, there’s nothing that can be done.” Then he’s quiet again and looks down the stairs. A powerful kick would knock him off balance, such that he would fall and injure himself badly. He shouldn’t go barging into strange houses, especially in the thick of night. The fact that there’s nothing that can be done about it won’t save him. His life dangles from a thin thread since he is only following orders. He has sacrificed himself to his duties. Most likely he didn’t even apply for this job, but rather was told: “You have to do it. Do you understand?”—“I’ll do it. I understand.” Then someone handed him a piece of paper and a voice shouted, “Sign here!” He signed the sheet, though with these letters nothing is accomplished to which anyone would grant the least value, nor would anyone be pleased by the signature. Only a name appears, but the sensibility behind the signature is long since lost.
It’s hard to understand why you have to sign your name so often. No one should have to sign his name at the end of a letter, for as soon as you do, everything you spent so much effort listing out becomes null and void. Yet everything has a value that can be assessed. Even old bed feathers have their use. They can be cleaned, pulled out, and dried in a warm cylinder that is turned by a little motor. It’s clearly stated that one isn’t allowed to take bed feathers along. Everything has to remain behind; the luggage allowed is limited to a certain size and weight. Carefully place a piece of paper inside with your name, address, and date of birth. It doesn’t matter that you no longer have an address. The worst that can happen is that you don’t get the bundles and they are sent back; Frau Lischka will recognize them if you show her which ones are yours. That’s when it dawns on them that nothing belongs to them anymore, rather it all belongs to the authorities who transform the anonymous possessions into property once again through simple magic. Outside one can also see the luggage lined up with names, addresses, and the birth dates on them. The suitcases and bags are marked with chalk or have notes glued to them. It’s good to have everything ready. Practicality always watches out for itself.
“There, sign here, but make it legible! Why are you letting the pen wobble? You’ll end up with a blotch instead of your name. Didn’t you ever learn to write! Oh, of course, a doctor! You can write prescriptions. But it never bothered you when the patient died from taking the wrong medicine. As long as the bill was legible.…”
Lustig is a name like any other, even when the eyes fail and the voice falters. No healthy person has ever had to consider what it’s like to be nameless, for it would never occur to him. Only in graveyards is it customary to give up one’s name. If you want complete rest, you not only have to stretch out your legs but also relinquish your name. Only then can you plump up the bed feathers and hope for a satisfying sleep. “Sign your name, so that it’s clear you can’t do that! Three times, please! In ink, not with a pencil!” Countless hands are stretched out and hold something that needs to be signed. “Here, use my pen!” It doesn’t work. There’s no ink for the names. Someone must have a bit of ink. Indeed someone, but somewhere else, not here, for no one knows what he should write. “Sign your name where it says ‘I waive …’ ” Where there is no name the waiver is meaningless. It strains the eyes too much, and b
esides, in this blackout no one can see where he should place his mark.
The way down the steps seems endless, because from start to finish you never feel sure of yourself on the stretch of stairs that winds back and forth, living from moment to moment without knowing if the effort will be rewarded. Nonetheless that’s where you often went, back when you were a child, whenever you wanted to be by yourself and yet someplace familiar, there where it was easy to pass some time on one of the steps and think about what you were feeling. Once a week the house lady knelt on the steps with a full pail of water next to her, dipping a gray rag into it that she’d fish back out and with both hands wring out with some effort. Then the damp rag slapped onto the stone, the washing having begun, step-by-step.
Frau Lischka didn’t like it when someone went up the stairs while she was doing this, and everyone knew that Friday afternoon was no time to invite guests or for anyone to ramble up and down the stairs. Leopold’s patients were often admonished and scolded, sometimes sent back down and told to wipe their feet better. Order had to be kept, the building couldn’t go to pieces. When Frau Lischka cleaned the stairwell everyone had to stop and wait until the steps were dried with a second rag. “You can use them now, but take two steps at a time!”
Yet the intruders that were now running around, entering each house in search of their detainees, they didn’t care about order as they carried out their duties with feebleminded expressions on their faces. The stairs were no longer a sacred place, and the houses were worth nothing; it almost seemed as if they were no longer even there. Yet you could see them, they each had an address corresponding to a name, and they were marked with a sign alerting each passerby that nothing had disappeared, that everything was in its place. You only had to know your way around Stupart and everything became easy.